


How to Break the Inquisitor in Three Easy Steps

by InnerMuse



Series: Broken [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Blood, Dark, F/M, Like seriously a lot of torture, Red Lyrium Cullen, Torture, non-con kissing, now with fanart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-12-13
Packaged: 2018-05-01 03:57:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5191331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerMuse/pseuds/InnerMuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>1. Let her fall in love with her Commander<br/>2. Feed him Red Lyrium<br/>3. Get him to torture her</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [little_abyss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_abyss/gifts).



> Is it a nightmare after Adamant? A dark AU? Something going horribly wrong post-Therinfal? Who cares! It's got a completely unhinged red-lyrium-infested Cullen inflicting horrible pain on his dearly beloved Inquisitor. I'm going straight to hell.

She didn't know how she had gotten captured. That was the part that scared her most of all. She was Inquisitor Kelandris Trevelyan, perhaps one of the most powerful people in Thedas – she was _not_ supposed to find herself being chained to a wall by red Templars with no memory of how she had gotten there. By the time she had come to her senses enough to struggle, it was too late. Cruel iron bands locked tightly around her wrists and ankles, holding her spread eagled against the stone. It was rough and cold against her skin – of _course_ , she had to be naked. Nevertheless, the Inquisitor snarled at her captors. She would not be cowed, not so easily, not even when one of the broken Knights slammed a lyrium-hardened fist into the wall next to her head. Despite her resolve, the tinkling crunch still provoked a flinch. The growling laughter of her red Templar jailers made her skull ache. Kelandris closed her eyes, bracing for the worst—

The heavy clang of a metal door slamming open shattered the ominous quiet. "Get away from her!"

Relief flooded her at the familiar voice. She had never been more grateful to hear her Commander's strong tenor. His sharp cry bounced oddly off the damp stone walls, twisting the timbre slightly until it resembled that of the corrupt knights around her. A clever trick of acoustics, that. The Inquisitor relaxed in her bonds. For one shining moment, she knew she would be alright—

And then she opened her eyes, and all her hope died in her chest. Cullen stood at the far end of the room, arms crossed, glaring at the twisted figures that surrounded her. It might have been reassuring, but the man facing her was not her Commander any longer. His pauldrons were gone, replaced by a forest of tiny, glittering scarlet needles that jutted from his shoulders in a cruel parody of the fur mantle he used to wear. His greaves, too, had been consumed by red lyrium, as had his vambraces. And his eyes... All trace of the burnished gold she loved so much was gone, replaced with a livid scarlet glow that sent tendrils of red light squirming over his cheeks and brow. The red Templars – the _other_ red Templars – had all snapped to attention. The... _creature_ wearing Cullen's face strode across the room, clanking unevenly, torchlight glinting off the red crystal spikes that poked through the seams of his armor.

"Sorry, Ser," grated one of the lurking Templars, earning himself an irritated glare from the former general. 

"The Inquisitor is mine," not-Cullen growled. Kelandris swallowed a moan of despair. "No one else will touch her without my express permission. Are we clear?" His voice was so achingly familiar, but twisted, the dark echo of red lyrium's corruption turning every syllable into a mockery. The other Knights all murmured understanding, a buzzing chorus that set her teeth on edge. With a sharp gesture towards the door, her Com— no, no, he was all wrong, he wasn't her Commander anymore— the red Templar captain ordered them out. They obeyed, some tossing angry red leers over their spiny shoulders at her bound form. The ruined husk of her lover stood in front of her, now, giving her a look that was almost tender.

"Kelandris, my love," he crooned, "I've missed you."

She nearly choked on a strangled gasp. It was the way he would greet her when she came back to Skyhold from field work, so full of joy to see her returning safely— but that was all gone, replaced by that horrible grating edge and a sort of wicked triumph. Her breath was coming in rapid pants now. She couldn't bear this, she couldn't, not him—

"Cullen," she whimpered – she couldn't help it, "What have they done to you?"

His eyebrows rose, tinged red in the thin tendrils of crimson light that twined around his face. "What have they done? _They_ did nothing – _I_ made myself strong. You should be happy for me, Kelandris. Blue lyrium is nothing, _nothing_ compared to this. The red has true power – I am more than I ever was, before. Now I can finally be worthy of you... And you, you will join me, beloved. We will be glorious, together."

She let out a sob as a hand rose to cup her cheek in a terrifyingly familiar gesture. His fingers were tipped with scarlet talons that had torn through the edges of his gauntlets – the knifelike crystals pricked her skin. The hard edge of another spike of lyrium pressed against her cheekbone under his palm. She recoiled in horror as much as she could, but his grip tightened, his claws leaving tiny puncture wounds. Abruptly, she went still – The razor-sharp blade of his thumb was resting just under her eye.

"What's wrong, my love? Don't you want me to touch you? I will make you great, as well, Inquisitor. It's no less than you deserve, after all."

Wrong, wrong, wrong, it was so wretchedly, completely _wrong_ — Kelandris didn't think it could get any worse, that this creature could unnerve her more than he already did— but he could. He kissed her. His lips were hot, too hot, and she could feel the red lyrium's insidious song vibrating through her bones. It made her skin crawl until she wanted to writhe right out of her flesh, but she was chained to the wall, and this horrible facsimile of her Commander was holding her still, and staring at her with his crimson eyes— it was too much. She screamed. He took the opportunity to invade her mouth, too-sharp teeth scraping her lips raw as his scorching breath seared her throat, tasting of blood and corruption. And yet still somehow this thing tasted like Cullen, too, her Cullen, her lover, her Commander, but no, he was gone, no, _**Cullen**_ —

A searing pain split her upper lip, and the corrupted ex-Templar drew back at last, smirking. She tasted a copper tang, but not until he licked the blood from his face did she realize what he'd done. Somewhere in the back of her paralyzed mind, a little voice started shrieking in horror and did not stop.

"I know you've always liked my scar," he murmured, the too-familiar smirk edged with a cruelty that was wholly new, "I thought you might appreciate a matching one." The growling undertone was so much worse when his voice was soft, seeming to pulse with a rhythm of its own. Her lip throbbed in time, sending blood dribbling down her chin. A scarlet trickle ran down her neck to her chest, and not-Cullen moved his hand from her face to trace its path with one needle-tipped finger. His touch was horrifically tender. How many times had he trailed just such a caress down the line of her throat, lightly teasing the sensitive skin in a loving gesture? The delicate brush of his crystal talon was made so much worse by the fact that it was a deliberate imitation.

"You get used to the pain, you know," he said, almost casually, "From the red lyrium. It becomes a part of you, like a fire in your veins, spurring you on. Every inch of your body singing with such sweet agony—" and suddenly, the razor claw against her flesh was no longer gentle. It scraped along her collarbone, splitting the skin as effectively as any blade. She was too shocked, too horrified even to scream. "Let me share that pain with you, Kelandris, my love," her red Templar captor whispered in Cullen's voice. He bent to press his bloody lips to hers once again, both hands grasping at her hips and digging in, the crystal spikes piercing all the way to the bone. She managed another scream, this time. And the next, when he nibbled along her jawline from chin to her earlobe, unnaturally pointed teeth shredding skin with every inch. And again the time after that, when his fingers ran up her abdomen in a cruel parody of a caress, leaving five long furrows in her flesh that wept crimson tears.

Eventually, she stopped screaming. She thought her tormentor satisfied when he finally, _finally_ turned and walked away— but she had never been more terribly, awfully wrong. When he returned a moment later, lyrium-encrusted armor glinting in the harsh light of the red-hot brand he carried, Kelandris discovered that she hadn't yet lost her voice, after all.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter? What new chapter? I don't know anything about— ohhh, you mean _this_ new chapter? Ha ha, gee, where did that come from? I certainly didn't write—  Okay, yes, I wrote it. Well I guess since you found me out I can just... leave it here. Yes.

They put her in a cell. Kelandris had been barely conscious as one of the red Templar soldiers unchained her from the wall and dragged her down a corridor to a thick metal door. It opened with a rattle of keys and a clang, and the twisted Knight threw her inside. She winced at the new bruises, then again as her jailor seized each of her arms in turn, fastening thick metal bands around her wrists that trailed long, heavy chains. A waterskin was pressed against her mouth. When she refused to drink, it was shoved down her throat, and she relented – she didn't particularly fancy the idea of dying of thirst, although it might be better than the alternatives. She tried not to think too hard about that. The water was followed by a bowl of thin gruel with the cloying tang of elfroot – she was to be denied death by starvation and infection as well, it seemed. Finally, the door slammed shut, and Kelandris was left alone in the darkness, with nothing but her tears for company. Curling up on her side, she started to tremble, silently chanting Cullen's name to herself over and over again. At last, exhaustion carried her down into the sweet embrace of oblivion.

\---

When she woke, someone was stroking her hair. She was on her back, wrists still locked in heavy shackles, head resting against something hard and angular.

"Wake up, Kelandris," said Cullen's voice above her. A shiver wracked her battered frame as she realized her head was cradled in the red Templar captain's lap. The gentle rhythm of his caresses revolted her, but she forced herself to lie still. As long as she didn't move, didn't react any further, she could pretend not to hear the grating echo in his voice. She could pretend that it was all a horribly vivid nightmare; that she was back at Skyhold, wounded from a skirmish and not from— something else; that she would open her eyes and he would be sitting at her bedside, pure golden eyes full of concern, fingers soft and sweet against her forehead—

Pain exploded in her skull as lyrium-bladed claws scraped along her scalp, ripping a gasp from her scream-ravaged throat. Her eyes snapped open with a whimper as the gesture was repeated, jagged crystals catching and tugging on torn skin and hair already becoming matted with blood. She knew who she would find above her, but it still took a desperate effort to fight back a wail at the sight of his scarlet gaze. Her heart felt like it was shattering into pieces all over again. She hadn't thought the sight of— of the red Templar's stare could hurt her any further, but apparently she had underestimated her treacherous mind's ability to conjure hope where there was none.

The grip on her hair tightened and twisted, sending hot lances of stinging pain down her spine. "There you are," said not-Cullen. The door to her cell was open, light from the torches outside revealing his face as he smiled that wicked smirk, the one that reminded her of kisses on the battlements and the taste of blood. "Good morning, beloved."

She tried to jerk away. It was futile, she knew it was futile, but she couldn't just lay there, not while that _thing_ stole Cullen's voice and his face and called her "beloved" and defiled his memory— she would not, could not be helpless. Never mind that simply moving made her want to scream from the pain of her injuries. She was the Inquisitor – she was not helpless, she was _not_ — But there was nothing she could do against the raw power of a lyrium-enhanced warrior. Even in top condition, fully armed and armored, she would have been hard pressed to break a red Templar's grip. Wounded, heartsick, and shackled, she may as well have tried to tear open her manacles with her bare hands.

Her captor merely chuckled at her feeble thrashing, seizing her upper arm and letting go of her hair so he could haul her into his lap. He pinned both her arms behind her with one hand. The other rested on her thigh, needle-tipped fingers curled just tightly enough to hurt without drawing blood.

"I always did like your spirit," he murmured into her ear. She shuddered and twitched her head away as he pressed a kiss to her temple. It was stupid – the movement left her neck and shoulder open to him, and he was quick to take advantage, nipping at the muscle there and adding another series of punctures to her abused flesh. She wanted Cullen back, the real Cullen, wanted him to wrap her in his arms and tell her everything would be alright, that it was just a nightmare, that he would never hurt her— But her Cullen was gone, replaced by this monstrosity. Resolutely, Kelandris clenched her teeth around a whimper. She would not give the bastard the satisfaction, even if he had already demonstrated that he could make her scream until her throat gave out.

"Now then," he said in his growling, too-familiar voice, "Let's get you cleaned up, shall we?"

The words made no sense – she was just going to end up covered in blood again anyway, wasn't she? – but Kelandris did not have the energy or inclination to think about them too hard. She would take what small mercies she could get – this at least promised to be relatively gentle. If her captor was busy wiping off the blood, he wasn't carving her to ribbons or dragging a hot iron across her flesh with agonizing deliberation. 

Liquid sloshed and wood scraped against stone as he dragged a full bucket over, still keeping a tight hold on her arms. Kelandris had thought she was in for a reprieve, but the moment he touched her with a dripping cloth, she keened and started to writhe: the frigid water had been liberally laced with salt. The already considerable pain of her wounds seemed to double under his paradoxically tender ministrations. She should have known better than to expect anything but torment at the red Templar's hands. The corrupted Knight was mercilessly thorough, prolonging her agony as long as possible as he carefully ran his stinging cloth over every inch of her torn flesh. By the time he finished, she was hanging limply in his arms, trying not to whimper and failing miserably.

Once, her Commander had bathed her by hand like that. She'd just returned from the Hissing Wastes, her right arm in a sling, covered in cuts and bruises from an encounter with an angry High Dragon. Cullen had greeted her with a desperately relieved kiss and a blistering lecture about recklessness, before offering to help her wash the sand out of her pores. He'd hummed an old Fereldan folk song as he gently maneuvered the soap across her body. Kelandris tried to remember the softness of his touch, the pleasant sensations of warm water and warm lips on her skin— but all she could call to mind was the cruel scrape of crystal talons and the searing, blinding agony of burning metal pressed against her flesh. This foul mockery of her Commander seemed determined to twist and taint her every pleasant memory. The wave of grief that struck her then hurt more than the salt water in her wounds.

He only made it worse. He started humming eerily as he pulled out a ring of keys and reached for the chains on her wrists. Of course it was the same song, the one he'd sung to her as he'd given her a bath back in Skyhold, before her life had turned into this red-lyrium-infested hellscape of constant suffering and horror—

Kelandris realized that one of her hands was free. It was curled into a fist and halfway to her tormentor's face before she could consider the consequences of her actions. But they didn't matter anyway. She had to do something, _anything_ , to get him to stop singing that song while red lyrium added skin-crawling harmony underneath his horribly, _wretchedly_ familiar tenor. Her punch never connected – he caught her wrist with pathetic ease – but he did at least stop humming. Eyebrows arching, he fixed her with a coolly disapproving gaze.

"Really, Kelandris? Throwing punches, now? Is that any way to treat your lover?"

"You're... not him," she rasped. "You're not... the man I love."

A shadow passed over his face. The grip on her wrist tightened until she was sure she could feel her bones grinding together.

"This is how you repay my kindness, Inquisitor? After all I've done for you? It could have been much worse, you know." His voice was quiet, dangerous, reverberating with red lyrium's echoing undertone. She was almost glad to hear that edge of madness – in his anger, the red Templar captain sounded less like Cullen than she'd ever heard him. It gave her the strength to meet his gaze defiantly, despite the blur of tears in her eyes.

"Maker take you," she ground out. She would not be broken so easily.

Her wrist, however, was a different story. A quick twisting jerk of his hand, a horrible crack, and the pain in her arm redoubled until it seemed the whole limb was throbbing with it. She couldn't hold back her sharp cry.

"I'm disappointed in you, love." His voice was back to its previous, deceptively mild, tone. "I expected better from you. But I suppose no one is perfect. Not even you, hmm? I'll even let you make it up to me... I do enjoy hearing you scream my name." He smirked sadistically at her as he unlocked the one remaining chain and scooped her up into his arms. A blindingly sharp protest from her newly-broken wrist accompanied the motion. The spikes of red lyrium jutting from his armor dug uncomfortably into her back, but Kelandris knew with utter, terrible certainty that this was nothing compared to whatever was to come. She squeezed her eyes shut as her captor carried her back down the hall, praying to the Maker for mercy. She did not expect an answer, for she knew he would show her none.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha it keeps getting worse why am I so depraved. Oh wait, I don't care because I'm having too much fun.
> 
> I'm marking this complete again, for now, because I don't have anything immediate in mind, but that doesn't preclude my updating more later. Also, there's probably going to be a sequel sometime soon with a bunch of potential epilogues (you can pick your favorite ending, yay!), cause I started thinking about how this scenario might turn out and couldn't decide which version I liked best.

Kelandris expected she would get chained to the wall again, but instead her captor brought her to a low slab of stone, like an altar. He pushed her to her knees and pulled her arms out to opposite corners, securing them there with another pair of ever-present manacles. The edge of the slab dug into her chest, but she hardly noticed over the pain of rough metal squeezing her broken wrist. When he placed a claw against her shoulder, however, she started paying attention to the rest of her body. Kelandris realized just how vulnerable this position left her – she was helpless, stretched out and bared for him, like a sacrifice.

Her tormentor began a long, shallow cut down her back. It hurt, of course it hurt, but she had endured similar all the previous day. She could endure this again – the brand had been worse. Halfway down her back, he stopped and stroked back upwards, only scratching this time and not breaking the skin.  _Maker, though darkness comes upon me, I shall embrace the light_. She closed her eyes and focused on the Chant. Not-Cullen drew a second cut, parallel to the first and half an inch away.  _I shall weather the storm; I shall endure_. Back at her shoulder, now. Splitting her skin a third time, not next to the other slices but perpendicular, joining the ends— Kelandris realized what he was going to do in the split second before he did it. She had time for one moment of pure, unadulterated terror, and then—

Red claws worked their way under the strip of skin and pulled, slowly peeling it away.

She probably screamed. She couldn't hear, couldn't see; there was only whiteness, tinged with scarlet, and the pulsing, burning,  _searing_  line of agony down her back. Each gasping breath sent a wave of raw, horrific sensation blazing across the strip of bared flesh— like the kiss of the hot iron, but constantly renewed, again and again and again and it  _didn't stop_ —

She was shaking in her bonds, sobbing, broken wrist flaring with pain as it jostled against her manacles. One cheek was pressed against the stone, and the other was cupped in the red Templar's palm. He stroked her cheekbone gently, wiping away her tears and leaving smears of blood in their place.

"Shhh," he crooned, "I'm here, it's alright. I've got you." His hand left her face, trailed down her neck, swept her hair aside. It settled at the top her shoulder, one razor talon resting ominously next to the gash in her skin. "I'm going to take care of you, Kelandris. It's alright. You'll scream for me again, soon, don't worry."

She moaned, a wordless cry of anguish. A plea hovered on the tip of her tongue—  _please, no, not again, please_ — but through some miracle of willpower she managed to hold it back. She would not beg. She would scream and sob and wail and scream again, but she would. Not. Beg.

Her conviction lasted her through three more stripes of flayed skin. Three times, her tormentor etched a long furrow into her back with a savage lyrium claw. Three times, he paused to let her stew in the unbearable, choking dread. Three times, he stripped away a line of flesh and shaved off a sliver of her sanity along with it. When he started on the fourth, something broke within her, and Kelandris pleaded unashamedly.  _Please, please stop, no more, please, I beg you_ — All to no avail. He carved the next half inch out of her hide with apparent relish, chuckling darkly at her sounds of torment.

"You're so beautiful like this," he murmured then, stopping to caress her cheek once more. He'd stopped torturing her, for a minute at least, and that alone was enough to spark a feeble wave of gratitude. When combined with the compliment, delivered in her lover's voice... He had made her want to thank him, and Kelandris thought she would never hate anyone or anything as much as she hated him in that moment.

He proved her wrong the moment later, when a lyrium-bladed talon scraped the fifth line of fire along her back, and she realized it was possible to hate him even more. She lost count of how many times he'd ripped away her flesh after that. Instead she screamed for mercy to every god she knew. She screamed to the Maker and Andraste; to the Elvhen Creators and the Dread Wolf; to the Tevinter Old Gods and the Dwarven Paragons and the nature spirits of the Avvar— Finally, when half the skin had been flayed off her back and she thought her throat would split open from her cries, Kelandris screamed her lover's name like the red Templar captain had said she would.  _Please, Cullen_ , she begged,  _please, anything, I love you, just stop, Cullen, **please**_ —

And he listened. He unbound her wrists and gathered her into his lap, nuzzling her hair as she sobbed against him. His arms cradled her trembling form, gentle at first but then too tight— not-Cullen held her in place and rubbed small circles up from the base of her spine. The gesture had once meant comfort, but now promised only agony. The last thing she heard was his voice in her ear, whispering, "I love you, too, Kelandris," and then his hand scraped onto the patch of bared flesh, and she knew no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Villains are forever threatening to flay the skin off someone's back, but no one ever actually _does_ it. It's endlessly frustrating, since it's such a good line, with so much potential for intimidation that never gets fulfilled. Now, Cullen, on the other hand (and by extension, Red!Lyrium!Cullen), is a man of action, and has no need to threaten.
> 
> [good_guy_greg.jpg] Third-rate villain threatens a flaying, doesn't follow through.  
> [scumbag_steve.jpg] Red Lyrium Cullen makes no threats, flays you anyway.
> 
> :D


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Hanukkah! I got everyone a present - it's more torture! Hooray! In this chapter, Red!Lyrium!Cullen is weirdly protective, and I have fun with made-up alchemy.

Kelandris drifted in and out of consciousness. Although, _drifted_ implied something soft and light – and this was anything but. A more accurate description would be that she languished in the searing purgatory between sweet, unknowing darkness and the tormented prison of her ravaged flesh. Time had lost all meaning for the captive Inquisitor – she didn't know when she had last opened her eyes. It could have been minutes, or hours; it could have been weeks. Her body shook with wracking shivers that sent jagged waves of agony ripping across her back. She felt like she'd been dipped in fire— or maybe it was ice instead. In a relatively lucid moment, she realized she was nearly delirious with fever.

The next time she woke, Kelandris decided that she really _was_ delirious – there was scratchy cloth underneath her instead of rough stone. The serrated edges of her pain were blunted, soothed by the numbing cool of elfroot – that was nice. She was glad her addled mind was at least giving her pleasant hallucinations. And there would be no point in torturing her further while she was insensate like this – she lacked the awareness to appreciate it. The effort would only be wasted. That was nice, too. She rather liked this fever business— except, the next time she shivered, the motion sent hot spikes of agony lancing from all her many wounds, and her head was foggy and her bones ached and she was too weak to even twitch away when she felt a needle-sharp claw brush gently across her cheek...

"Get better soon, love," not-Cullen whispered in her ear. "I don't like seeing you in pain – not when I haven't caused it."

\---

Unfortunately, her fever broke eventually. Kelandris tried to pretend she was still sick for a while, but her body gave her away. Her shuddering stopped and her ragged breathing eased, and soon a red Templar had come to throw her back in her cell. Someone had bandaged her back and set her broken wrist while she lay convalescing. Many of her lacerations were half-healed, now, as well – she vaguely remembered the taste of elfroot and figured she'd been given a potion. Or two, or five... she wished she were naive enough to believe it a mercy. Her flayed back throbbed, still, regardless, as she lay huddled in the darkness. Fighting down a sob of despair, Kelandris marshaled her strength for her next ordeal. The Cantle of Trials ran through her mind, the familiar words of the Chant giving her comfort where little else could. _I have faced armies with You as my shield, and though I bear scars beyond counting, nothing can break me except Your absence..._

She _could_ endure whatever was to come.

She had to. She had no other choice.

\---

Some time later, she was deposited unceremoniously in front of the red Templar captain that so resembled Cullen, bearing a set of split knuckles and a massive bruise that spread across her face. The twisted husk of her lover was perched nonchalantly on the edge of a table, waiting. When she was dumped before him, however, he took one look at her new injuries and stiffened, turning a steely-eyed glare on the knight that had brought her in.

"Where did those marks come from, soldier?" If it had still been her Commander speaking, Kelandris would have classified his tone as _deceptively mild_ ; the addition of red lyrium's skin-crawling undertone changed it to _dangerously soft_ instead. With her captor's attention occupied, she dared to lift her head and smirk at the other red Templar through swelling lips. She couldn't do anything to the former general for fear of retribution, but he had specifically warned the others not to hurt her. So she figured it had been relatively safe to provoke the corrupted knight...

"She punched me, Ser!" It hadn't accomplished much besides earning her a lyrium-encrusted gauntlet to the face, but it had certainly been satisfying. 

"And?" The crimson eyes that used to belong to Cullen narrowed. "She didn't get that bruise from nowhere."

"And, I, uh... I slapped her, Ser. In retaliation."

"I see." Pause. "You slapped her." Another pause. "And do you remember the first thing I ordered when the Inquisitor was brought in?"

The twisted soldier shifted uncomfortably. "That no one was to touch her without your express permission." There was a beat of silence, followed by a hastily added, "Ser." It was almost amusing, watching a red-lyrium-infested monstrosity get a dressing down like a wayward recruit, except nothing was particularly funny while waiting to be tortured. It did at least delay the inevitable, though. In ominous quiet, not-Cullen slipped off the edge of the table and stalked up to his subordinate.

The next moment, the stone chamber reverberated with the loud crunch of crystal on flesh, and the even louder crash of metal on stone. When the sound faded, the red Templar foot soldier lay groaning in a heap against the wall, clutching his head— his captain had backhanded him across the face, hard enough to send him careening across the room, and possibly breaking something in his skull in the process. It was a sobering reminder of red lyrium's potential – Kelandris hadn't really considered the destruction her tormentor was capable of. He could easily crush her if he so chose, break every bone in her body, pound her into a bloody pulp without a second thought. He was holding back, out of... something. Cruel amusement at her suffering? The shattered remains of his affection for her, twisted beyond all recognition into something dark and painful? That was a highly disturbing thought. Either way, though, the result was the same: despite all her captor's terrifying power, she would not be receiving the mercy of a quick death. Not any time soon.

As if she needed any _more_ reason to feel helpless.

She had gotten the other knight punished, at least. That was something. His captain stood over him, staring coldly down at the pile of steel and lyrium that was the disgraced Templar's crumpled form.

"You can tell the others that if the Inquisitor tries anything else, they should come straight to me," he snapped, too-familiar voice echoing hollowly. "If she suffers any more _retaliation_ , I will gladly show the perpetrator the same courtesy I showed to you." He turned away and prowled back to the table, where she lay stewing in quiet dread. Behind him, the hapless soldier staggered to his feet and saluted. Without looking around, the former Commander added a final directive – "And find someone else to cover your duties. I don't want to see you near Kelandris again."

His possessiveness was chilling. He wouldn't tolerate her mistreatment at the hands of any of his men... No, he wanted all of her pain for himself. And she knew with sickening certainty that he would get it.

"Now then," her tormentor said softly, once the other red Templar had left, "Where were we?"

She stared resolutely at the ceiling. This would be easier if she didn't have to look at Cullen's face— but the lyrium-infested captain grabbed her chin and forced her to meet his scarlet-eyed gaze.

"You're looking better than the last time I saw you," he continued, smiling, and Kelandris had to suppress the sudden urge to spit in his face. That would end terribly, she was sure. "We should do something about all these wounds, though." And that was _incredibly_ ominous. He ran a crystal talon carefully down her torso, skirting the edges of the worst of her healing cuts and burns. She flinched— and struggled not to flinch again as the motion made the bare flesh of her back scrape against the table through her bandages. That creature had said something similar before he'd wiped her down with salt water – was he going to do so again? Use something nastier this time?

An earthenware jar thunked down by her head, and Kelandris recognized the acrid tang of its contents with a wave of choking horror. Unquestionably something nastier: those were the throat-searing fumes of improperly handled Rashvine Nettle. The volatile herb made for a powerful antiseptic when prepared correctly, but almost no one bothered with that particular recipe. For good reason: it was finicky, and any mistakes led to a disaster of a tincture that would itch and burn as much as it cleansed. From what she could tell by scent alone, this batch was some of the worst she had ever had the misfortune of encountering – which meant they either had a _very_ bad alchemist around, or a very _good_ one. A good one who was also unspeakably cruel.

She squeezed her eyes shut as not-Cullen dipped a finger in the foul green-tinged concoction. She braced herself for something horrible as he dabbed at the first of the rents in her skin – for a fraction of a second, the potion was cool and not entirely unpleasant— and then she was clutching the edge of the table in a white-knuckled grip with her uninjured hand to keep from clawing at herself. If she ever got out of here she was going to find her old alchemy tutor and throttle him, because _itching_ and _burning_ were horrific understatements. Oh _Maker_ , that _hurt_ , it stung like nothing she'd ever felt and she wanted it _off_ , _**needed**_ it—

And she wasn't chained down. Her tormentor was busily coating all her half-healed wounds in something that made her want to rip off her own skin and she _wasn't chained down_ —

Kelandris could see where this was heading, and it was going to end very, very badly indeed.

To her utter devastation, that prediction turned out to be exactly right. The red Templar captain caught her wrist a few times as he administered his terrible poultice. Each time, he pressed her hand back against the table with a gentle admonishment not to move. Finally, though, every inch of the torn flesh on her front had been coated with the cruel potion. Through the fiery haze of pain, Kelandris felt a moment of heart-stopping terror – if he spread it on her back she was quite sure she would simply die on the spot from the agony – but apparently her captor thought she was already suffering enough. He merely patted her on the cheek – she keened as a final smear of Rashvine Nettle extract seared the sensitive skin under her eye – and gave her one final warning.

"I'll be back in a while to wash that off, my love – try not to move, hmm?"

He left. Kelandris tried to heed his words. She tried very, very hard.

She lasted half an hour.

Once she started scratching, it was impossible to stop. Clawing at her flesh brought a brief second of relief from the blazing itch, but that only made it so much worse when the sensation returned a moment later, in full force. It hurt, Maker, it hurt, it hurt _so much_... By the time he returned, Kelandris was writhing on the floor, sticky with blood, having long since fallen off the table. The red Templar captain sighed, scooping her up and depositing her back on its surface.

"I did warn you not to do that," he scolded, capturing her good wrist with one hand. The other he propped on his hip, and he fixed her with a disappointed stare. "You've gone and reopened all your wounds, Kelandris." She whimpered – _You knew that was going to happen, you bastard_ – but he wasn't done yet. "You were rolling all over the floor, as well. I don't want you getting infected – you do realize we have to do that all again, now?"

 _What?_ No. _No._ No no **_no ___**, she had scratches all over her skin, in addition to the old lacerations – it would sting and burn even worse this time, he didn't seriously think she could keep still through _that_ —

When he chained her broken wrist to the table, Kelandris nearly sobbed with relief – she wouldn't claw herself to pieces if she was restrained. She never thought she would be grateful for the heavy manacles. She waited for the clink of chain as he moved to secure her other hand— but it didn't come. Instead, a rasp of steel on leather met her ears: the sound of a dagger being unsheathed. Her heart began to pound as dread settled like ice in her chest. _Oh no. Oh, Maker, no._ Her tormentor stretched out her free arm and splayed her fingers against the table, leaving her palm spread wide and defenseless. _Maker, please no, please please **no** —_ Maybe she would pass out as soon as his knife pierced her palm. Maybe the Anchor would swallow up the blade and she wouldn't feel anything. Maybe—

_**Thunk.** _

Stars exploded behind her eyes as the dagger tore through flesh and bit deep into the wood beneath. The shock of impact lanced up her arm to the shoulder, her voice breaking with the force of her scream. The Anchor sputtered fitfully, but the surge of tingling energy only made her more aware of the blinding, wrenching, _stabbing_ pain in her hand. _Maker, please, Maker..._ The ache subsided to a dull throb a moment later as her chest heaved – as long as she kept her arm very still, the pain was bearable. But— of course, she wasn't going to be able to do that. A pitiful moan escaped her lips as she realized the extent of her captor's cruelty. He was going to clean her wounds again, with that evil, _evil_ potion, and she wouldn't be able to stop her reactions. He was going to make her _writhe_ , and every motion would send pulses of agony tearing up her arm and down her spine. Every involuntary jerk would drive her palm a little harder against the blade that pinned it to the table, and scrape the flayed skin of her back against the rough grain of the wood...

When the horrible mockery of her lover began his torment the second time, Kelandris hoped desperately that she would fall unconscious. She prayed, begged, _pleaded_ , to the Maker and Andraste both, to show her mercy and let her succumb to darkness.

Someday, perhaps, she would receive an answer to her prayers— But that day had not yet come. Today, she was doomed to suffer. And suffer she did.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More art:  
> http://innermuseda.deviantart.com/art/Red-Lyrium-Cullen-s-Favorite-Things-577891381

**Author's Note:**

> Now with fanart! http://innermuseda.deviantart.com/art/Red-Lyrium-Cullen-Loves-You-Very-Much-572064623


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